


Favors to the Universe

by UnfoldedUrbana



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: BAMF Wrex, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Comedy, Disabled Character, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Kidnapping, POV Original Character, POV Wrex, Physical Disability, Pre-Canon, Pre-Mass Effect 1, Wrex's (slightly) earlier days, batarians aren't nice ok, ok it might be turning from dark comedy to just straight-up dark, turians being snarks, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-06-27 23:53:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19800394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnfoldedUrbana/pseuds/UnfoldedUrbana
Summary: Takes place 60-odd years prior to ME1. Wrex-centric fic with a sly (albeit very unlucky) turian OC and some godawful batarians mixed in.For all his self-interested exploits, Wrex still cares for his crumbling homeland. Tuchanka may be a stinking, irradiated hellhole, but he'll protect it from any further destruction when he can. After a turian explorer raids several ancient Krogan crypts, Wrex plots revenge. Except - he may have chosen the wrong mercs to help him get the job done.Contents now include:Wrex outwitting folks and also blasting them with a shotgunA turian slicing throats with an omni-blade while being biotically levitatedBatarians getting too rich for their own goodWholesome quarian-turian romance





	1. "Mistake"

Wrex knew it by the look in Krent’s oily eyes: a mistake had been made. Of what sort – he planned to discover shortly.

“We were at the third floor, room eighty-nine, just as we planned” Krent grumbled. “In and out of there with the turian sedated. Not a single witness.” He turned to hang his jacket on a hook outside the decontamination door, then brushed off his hands.

“Third floor. Of which tower?”

“The…one you said.”

Wrex hadn’t known this batarian fellow for long, but he’d known deception for centuries. Half-truths, lies by omission. Apparently they taught those things in the school for snotty batarian slavers. That didn’t mean they were taught adequately.

“It’s obviously him,” Krent said. “There was a vid about Tuchanka playing in his room. Not many turians could give a shit about krogan history.”

“Did he have the colony markings?”

“Something like that. Green, I think.”

“White,” Wrex said. “Taltik Nirian’s face is painted white.”

“Correct.”

Out the office window, Wrex could see that Krent’s ship was already leaving the dock. The Citadel seemed to float away from them, then shrink into nothing.

“Remember our agreement,” Krent said. “Once your interrogation is over, he’s ours. Whether he’ll really tell you anything is out of my control, and it’s not what you’re paying me for.” A solid glare from Wrex, and Krent’s hands fidgeted.

“ _But_ I wish you luck,” he added. “Since you’ll be paying me first. If Taltin-”

“Taltik.”

“If Taltik is smart, he’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Wrex inclined his head, squinting.

“Before I pay you,” he growled, “I want to see him.”

“That wasn’t our-”

“Fast.”

The first thing Kypran noticed was the blood on the ceiling. His ceiling didn’t have bloodstains. It also wasn’t such an ugly shade of yellow.

Kypran sat up. This was not his bedroom. This place was small and windowless and bare. Only a door to tell him that the universe as he knew it still probably existed.

More blood on the floor. Red mostly, so not his own. He had been lying in it, staining the gray jumpsuit that he always wore to bed.

Now more than ever, Kypran wished that he’d never watched all those conspiracy vids about the labs in Noveria or the Collectors in dark space. Better to be utterly confused than grasping hold of ideas that would only terrify him more.

The door opened before he could imagine any further. Armed, helmeted figures, asari or maybe batarian, grabbed hold of his arms and yanked him into a narrow hallway with black walls. He walked with them, thankful that he was keeping pace, at least for now. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, and therefore how long he’d been without a “recharge.”

One of the figures raised a hand to seize a spike on Kypran’s crest, wrenching so that his eardrum was level with the mouth behind the helmet.

“Your name is Taltik Nirian,” he barked, as Kypran was forced further down the hall. “You’re a researcher who stole countless artifacts off Tuchanka. Understand?” Hard eyes peered down at him through the helmet. Kypran recognized them as batarian.

“What?”

There was no time to say more as Kypran was pushed through another door into a shower room that looked fitted for asari. One of the batarians shoved him down onto a stool while the other rummaged in a supply rack through different brushes and sanitizers, finally returning with some sort of heavy-bristled scrubber. A hand gripped Kypran by his crest again as the scrubber was brought to his face.

“Tell me this shit comes off.”

Kypran didn’t understand at first. What was on his face? Blood?

The bristles moved hard and fast, practically cutting into his face plates like little serrated knives. Kypran squinted and couldn’t help but move up a hand at the urge to bat the scrubber away. His arms were promptly wrenched back as the batarian standing watch moved behind him.

“Taltik,” the one scrubbing said. “Remember, that’s you, Taltik. Can these stripes on your face be removed?”

Realization hit Kypran and his brow plates moved together. The bristles crashed into the sensitive area of his nose shortly after, and he twisted against the grip on his crest by mistake. An impact jarred his head; he thought it was the scrubber again for a moment, but it had actually been a punch. One of them had punched him.

“Sit still and answer me,” the batarian ordered. “This shit on your face is permanent? Or isn’t it?”

A grumble built in Kypran’s throat, fear congealing into aggression.

“About as permanent as your freakish spare eyes,” he said.

The scrubber was hurled at him, and bounced off his head to the floor.

“Of course. And it had to be green. Fucking infuriating.”

“It doesn’t matter, Krent. We’ll paint over it, like I wanted to,” the batarian behind him said. “Let’s go.”

Kypran felt two gloved hands begin to pull him upright – and suddenly his legs weren’t quite able to cooperate.

“Up, now!”

“Can’t.”

A strike to the back of his head made him grab the stool for balance. He hesitated to straighten up, tense for another attack. The one in front of him – Krent – looked about ready to rip him in two.

“Can’t?” He shouted.

“Disabled. I’ve got cybernetics…in my spine. After an old injury."

“And what the hell is wrong with them?”

“They have to be charged, or I can’t walk. At least not reliably.”

Krent squeezed his helmet with both hands, fingers curled with maddening frustration.

“I’m not so sure Wrex will buy this,” his friend piped in.

“Just get the paint on him!”

Half a terran hour later, Kypran wasn’t certain whether to be horrified or deeply amused by his reflection.


	2. Shunted

Wrex sat in the slaver ship’s cramped meeting room, picking some dirt from the grooves in his armor. One of the lights above him was buzzing. Some sort of insect was crawling up the wall.

What a waste of time, he thought. This was “fast” by batarian standards? If he’d told them to take their time, he’d probably be a fossil when they got back.

Wrex had some experience being patient, of course. A thousand-year lifespan had some benefits. Plus, the payoff would be worth it – either that, or Wrex would have a solid excuse to teach these batarian low-lives a few lessons.

Just typical that Taltik had to hide out on the Citadel – the one place where Wrex would likely be recognized and swarmed by the authorities in an instant. His rep hadn’t had time to cool down since the last firefight on the Wards – otherwise he would have kidnapped the damn turian himself.

The doors finally opened. Krent returned with another slaver, who was dragging the turian behind him like so much scrap metal.

“He won’t walk,” Krent said. “May have had some reaction to the sedatives.”

Krent’s partner deposited the turian in a chair across from Wrex. The three of them barely fit into the meeting room. Wrex wondered again why the hell it was so tiny.

“Taltik?” Wrex said. The turian snapped up to look at him; his eyes were shifting, and his white-striped mandibles twitched.

”Yes,” he blurted. “…Yes?”

Wrex sneered. For such a brazen thief, Taltik’s fear didn’t seem to come from a place of guilt. What Wrex saw instead was only…confusion. The turian’s gaze shifted to the buzzing ceiling light, and a three-fingered hand began lifting to the thick marks on his face. Krent forced his arm back down.

“You know why I’ve got you here. Yes?” Wrex asked. Taltik heaved a breath, but as his mouth fell open, Krent interrupted.

“Questioning him now wasn’t part of the deal. Credits first.”

Wrex fixed the batarian with a cold glare. One heavy paw curled into a fist. But he refrained from giving the slaver the beating he truly deserved. Instead, his omni-tool flashed orange around his arm, and the transfer was made. Krent grinned his jagged, needle-toothed approval.

“We appreciate your business,” he said. He and the other slaver slipped out of the room. They were in more of a hurry than seemed necessary. The door shut and Wrex was alone with Taltik. The turian’s breath rattled, and his gray throat was going pale. He looked Wrex in the eye.

“Who are you?” He asked.

“You should know,” Wrex growled.

“I…I don’t.”

Wrex eyed the turian carefully. All this supposed confusion could be his way of buying time, of deceiving Wrex. Maybe there really _was_ guilt under those darting eyes. Wrex decided that he would dig it up before Taltik had any chance to fool him.

He crossed the meeting room and seized Taltik under his jaw, slamming him into the wall at his back. The turian thrashed. Wrex made him hold still.

“I know what you stole from the krogan. _Confirm_ to me where you are hiding our artifacts, and I won’t have to break you in two.”

Something wet was on Wrex’s hand. At first he thought Taltik had drooled on him; he looked to be in enough of a panic. Instead Wrex looked down to find that the white markings had smeared off onto his fingers, where he’d held the turian’s jaw. With the white paint rubbed away, Wrex could see green on his face plates.

“So they-!”

A heavy “clunk” sounded as the whole room jerked, followed by what could only be described as an explosion. All sense of gravity and direction fell away as the walls rocked and spun.

This was no meeting room. It was an escape pod.

When the krogan let go of him, Kypran couldn’t have been more relieved. As he realized that the room had dropped, his relief promptly collapsed into a new dizzying wave of fear.

His hands snatched for anything. Chairs, light fixtures, the same krogan that had been threatening to kill him only instants ago. Any sort of solid purchase that would keep him from smashing onto the walls with bone-breaking force.

It wasn’t enough. The pod continued rushing through space, spinning furiously. Kypran tried to curl up as the first heavy impact with the wall sent a shock through his body. He managed to cover his head with his arms, but his legs refused to fold in closely enough. The second impact came feet first, and the krogan landed on top of him. Stunned, he clung to a tiny handle on the wall and willed himself to hold tight.

The spinning continued, and while one arm would occasionally rip loose from his hold, Kypran kept himself from losing control. Then the spins came slower, and slower. The krogan found his footing on what was the back of a chair. Finally the room had come to a near-halt.

“They cheated me.”

“What?” Kypran asked.

“And now they’re leaving us to die. Taltik – the real Taltik – must have made a superior offer. The damn pyjak.”

“So you know I’m not him.”

Though his vision was shaky from spinning, Kypran studied the krogan’s angry, yellowed face. His mouth was set in a hard grimace, but his eyes scanned the room with almost vulnerable worry. Kypran had never seen a krogan this concerned before.

“I wasn’t sure,” the krogan said. “I should have been. Slavers are always shifty, but they were clearly hiding something.” He tossed his head. “And now we’re completely stranded between systems.”

Kypran raised a hand to his neck, stroking absently. He stared at the krogan, but by now his mind was elsewhere. Yesterday’s events. Another shift at the shipping office. A message to his girlfriend. A warm dinner and a few vids before he nodded off. Only to wake up here. Shunted into deep space with a vicious krogan.

“This isn’t happening.”

“I’ll send out a signal with my omni-tool. Not sure where the slavers left us, but we’ll either be picked up, or we wont. And yes,” the krogan grumbled. “This is happening.”

Kypran began to form a “no” as if it were reflex, but stopped himself. His traveling companion seemed far less aggressive than before, and Kypran wanted to maintain this. One nightmare at a time would be more than enough.

“So…you have an actual name?”

“Kypranius Teptus. I’m usually called Kypran.”

“Hmh.” The krogan remained focused on his omni-tool. “Kip it is, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to review, and stay tuned for chapter 3


	3. Ways to Die

Kypran sat in one corner of the pod, pulling his legs up close to conserve heat. Was it just his imagination, or was the escape pod colder than before, the life support systems already beginning to fail? The krogan – Wrex – seemed content to peer out the slitted window, eyes roaming for ships. Kypran occasionally found himself interested enough to crawl over and pull himself up the wall to watch, too; whether that interest was from anxious curiosity or mind-numbing boredom, he himself wasn’t sure.

“So you can at least stand,” Wrex had remarked. Kypran nodded.

“I’m not paralyzed,” he said. “But movement comes and goes.”

The escape pod had practically stopped moving. With no ships in sight, and no planets near them, the stars sat constant and maddeningly unmoving. After returning to his seat, Kypran could feel the heat fading from him, and began to shiver. To his surprise, the krogan ripped up the fibrous padding from the pod’s chairs, and passed some shreds of it to him as a sort of blanket.

“Thank you.”

Wrex huffed.

“You won’t thank me when we run out of breathable air,” he said, and dropped down to sit beside Kypran. They stared in silence for a few moments. The stars were as still as a painting.

“Is there anything we can do?” Kypran asked.

“Probably not,” Wrex said. “The signal’s out there, but we’ll be lucky if there are any ships close enough to hear it. We could be near enough to some shuttle traffic. Chances are we’re not.”

A deep breath started in Kypran’s throat. He cut it short.

“So if we run out of air…”

“I’ve killed my share of your ancestors. I don’t mind putting you out of your misery.”

Kypran eyed Wrex with a sideways stare.

“If you’re ready, that is. As for me,” Wrex said. “I’m a biotic. Shouldn’t take much to warp a hole in this flimsy pod and make things quick for myself. If not a little exciting.”

Wrex laughed a low, dry laugh. Kypran rubbed his cold hands together.

“I’ve never met a krogan biotic.”

“You never spent much time in the interesting parts of the galaxy, did you?”

“I went to Illium once,” Kypran said, almost indignant.

“Hah! Illium? You call that interesting?”

“We were following up on a dangerous shipment to Palaven. This was during my mandatory service – I was fresh out of training. As it turns out, a krogan gang known as the Blood Pack had been establishing themselves outside the Terminus Systems.” Kypran gave the krogan a pointed look.

“So in short, I’ve had to kill plenty of _your_ kind as well. Not that it was easy.”

“That the reason why you walk about as badly as most turians swim?”

Kypran grated a laugh in spite of himself.

“You could say it’s a design flaw,” he said. “Much harder to crush the spine of anything with a thick waist. So I’m not the only turian with this problem. It’s just…not often you’re left without a charge for the cybernetics.”

“Well – it’s a good thing for you that we’ve got nothing to do but sit.”

It wasn’t a good thing at all, of course, but Kypran didn’t mention it. He found himself too tired to continue speaking.

Wrex left Kip asleep in the corner as he continued checking his omni-tool. In the increasingly bitter cold of the escape pod, its orange glow was the only pleasant thing he had. Finding no signals, he shut the omni-tool off and strained to look out the window from every manageable angle. The stars were all so pitifully small – so far away.

Wrex had always struggled with chaos. Calculated evil was far more comfortable to face. People were pyjaks. He’d take a conscious force ruining his life every day over this sort of random helplessness – this impossible reality that he had no way of fighting. A millennia of life and countless trials in battle couldn’t prepare him for being lost in the wrong part of space.

He looked back at the turian, who was beginning to shiver in his sleep. Wrex sat next to him again, and spared a hand on Kip’s shoulder to warm him up marginally. Wrex visualized snapping Kip’s neck in the near future – once they began to suffocate. Hopefully Kip wouldn’t panic; the moment Wrex knew he wasn’t Taltik, he’d found no reason to dislike the turian, and that would make killing him a bit tougher.

Or maybe they would freeze before it came to that. Turians were sensitive to cold; Kip might not even wake up again if the pod began to cool down quickly. Wrex wasn’t exactly resistant to frigid temperatures either.

Wrex was adjusting a strip of padding over Kip’s side when a pale light washed over his hand. He looked to the window. There it was: a ship.

Wrex’s jaw fell half-open in silent awe. All of his present struggles – facing his own arbitrary death, and the death of a relative innocent – he could put them away, give them up, because they were saved.

Like cogs slotting into place, old problems were swapped with new. Wrex had almost chanced a closer look from the window, but hesitated. Anyone could be waiting in that ship, and many might object to taking in an unknown krogan. The turian or salarian military, to name just a couple. Instead, he chanced a wave, only revealing a gloved hand through the window.

Something shifted under Wrex’s feet. The pod had been snared and was being pulled onboard.

“Kip,” Wrex called. “We’ve been found.”

The turian jerked awake and sat up. His mandibles flared in what seemed to be joy as he stared up at the window.

Then he said, “No.”

Wrex realized that Kip’s expression was not as joyful as he’d interpreted. Following the turian’s gaze, he could see the wall of the hold they’d been pulled to. Painted on it was a red, misshapen skull, or rather a skull with a fist beneath it.

“Blood Pack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't resist cliffhangers. If any readers wanna speculate on what will happen next, don't hesitate to comment :]


	4. Red and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's first half includes some varren mauling, so if intense violence isn't your cup of tea, feel free to skip to the second section.

The next thing Kypran saw were his own hands on a stained metal floor. He was sitting up, but had no memory of getting here.

Something in his throat felt wrong. Poison. He shuddered and coughed. Gagged.

A voice – krogan, but not Wrex – made him look up. He could see it standing on an overhang one floor above him. Its armor was striped red. As were the walls and the vorcha flanking it.

“Arise, Kypranius. You’re about to face the Blood Pack’s judgment!”

Memories flashed over Kypran and he wondered distantly if this is what solipsism felt like. He could still picture Illium – the gory colors of Blood Pack troopers in stark contrast to the muted blues and purples on the docks. His assault rifle had shredded vorcha faces into slime, had peppered the armor of the krogan battlemasters until there were no hearts left to beat in their chests.

And then a _crack_ – the one that had rendered him helpless without implants. He remembered the pale, snarling face of the krogan that had pinned him. How it had bellowed fury at him…until he’d worked off one glove and slashed open its throat with his bare talons.

All this time, the krogan above him was yelling orders and obscenities. Kypran had registered none of it – only the angry colors that still made his eyes dilate, saturated in the horrors of past trauma.

He coughed again, looking back down. Had that varren been waiting there before?

“Fight!” The krogan hollered.

The varren was charging at him. Kypran couldn’t stand.

The impact almost knocked him flat as gnashing jaws sought his face but were blocked by his arms. Kypran doubled over to right himself and protect his front. His entire left sleeve flooded blue, wet from several punctures down his arm.

The varren lunged again. He blocked it, felt another row of punctures tear his skin, and doubled over once more to keep himself alive. It snapped and snapped at him, drawing blood at every contact. He was jarred but kept his vitals covered. His breaths came loud. He shut his eyes. Fangs raked down his back.

_“Fight!”_

The varren seized his leg, then thrashed and rolled. Somewhere behind layers of shock and panic, Kypran was relieved to feel only a portion of the pain. He grasped for purchase on the floor with one hand, then jabbed the varren’s eye with his other. It finally released him.

Or had it? Kypran wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, if he would be able to feel difference. The room was fuzzy – was the krogan turning off the lights?

Kypran slumped backward and felt nothing.

Wrex woke up to his own dry coughing. Something stung in the back of his throat like the toxic ash of Tuchanka, only stranger. Worse. He tossed his head and breathed in deep to hack out the last of it.

With relief, he noticed that he was no longer trapped in the escape pod. Instead he was in some other room – probably a ship, but without windows he couldn’t be certain. The last thing he remembered was seeing the red Blood Pack logo on the ship that had rescued them…and he could see it painted on the rusted metal door to his right.

Wrex looked to every corner, even under the bench he’d been lying on. There was no sign of Kip. Wrex marched to the door and pushed it open. In the hall outside, a krogan in red armor approached him.

“Greetings, Urdnot Wrex,” he said. “We must apologize for not welcoming your properly. The other passenger in your escape pod had to be subdued, before we could retrieve you.”

Wrex’s eyes narrowed into slits. He made note of the rifle in the other krogan’s hands, tolerating it only since it was pointed down. “Who are you?” He growled.

“Apologies, Urdnot. I am Weyrloc Tersh. I serve the Blood Pack as an elite warrior.”

“Weyrloc,” Wrex noted. He recalled the clan on Tuchanka; though it had survived the same grueling trials as Wrex’s own, it was not known for glory. Over generations, many clan members had branched out at interesting prospects, only to fail. A high rank in the Blood Pack must have become the newest of these “prospects,” Wrex considered.

“So you are in charge here?” He asked.

“That honor is not mine,” Tersh answered. Wrex wanted to laugh. “Trinderok Starg is the captain of this vessel. He is the one who arranged to collect your escape pod.”

“So it _was_ arranged,” Wrex said. He stepped forward, craning his head so that his shadow passed over Tersh. Wrex was not pleased, and he let that displeasure show in the snarled set of his jaw. “Your Captain Starg has a lot of explaining to do.”

“I will lead you to him,” Tersh offered, and the two of them began down the hallway. “The Blood Pack is completely willing to answer any questions you have. But it is best that the answers be given by our leader.”

“Either your leader will confess,” Wrex growled, “That he _schemed_ with the batarian slavers – the ones that cheated me – or he’s lying.”

A thousand years of life had not been entirely wasted on Wrex. Certain wisdom could not be unlearned after countless experiences. Though relief had overcome him at the sight of a ship out of darkness, Wrex had known, in the back of his mind, that such a coincidence would be impossible. The Blood Pack had to have been told that he and Kip were waiting out there – and one of them must have been worth their time to retrieve.

“Starg will put things right,” Tersh assured. “If we wronged you, we will find a way to compensate you for all of your trouble.” They reached a large set of doors. Tersh pulled them open, and added,

“The Blood Pack is always generous to krogan.”


	5. Laysa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Features some blood and unpleasant stuff in the second half, fair warning.

Wrex could tell by the sag of his jaw and the many scars that gridded his pale face: Starg was old, even for a krogan. Why such a supposedly wise and experienced creature had chosen to remain with a gang of bloodthirsty, credit-hungry berserkers, Wrex didn’t know, but already it reminded him of his own father – an old warlord who never understood when to stop fighting and try thinking.

“Starg?”

“Well met, Urdnot,” the pale krogan answered.

“I’d like to know why you gassed our pod the minute we were brought aboard – and why you knew to retrieve us in the first place.”

The lackey – Weyrloc Tersh – pulled a seat from the side of the room and offered it to Wrex. He sat without moving his eyes from Starg, who remained planted at the end of the room, his armored hand atop an asari skull on his armrest.

“You’re in a hurry for explanations, I see.” Wrex only glared in response. “Very well,” Starg said. “We had expected only a turian to be delivered to us. Your inclusion on the escape pod was a mistake on the part of the _specialists_ we hired.”

“So you were also after Taltik Nirian?” Wrex asked. “Because I have some interesting news for you. Your batarian ‘allies’ have made more than one mistake-”

“No,” the old krogan interjected, raising his hand from the skull. “We asked that Kypranius Teptus be removed from his hiding place on the Citadel. He has a history with me – with the Blood Pack – and it will be redressed.”

To the side of Wrex, Tersh nodded, grinding his teeth. He thought back on Krent, on those scheming, oily eyes. All along, the batarians had been serving the Blood Pack; they had only been stringing Wrex along for easy credits in the meantime. With one client paying them to capture Taltik, Taltik paying for them to capture a decoy, and the Blood Pack paying for said decoy….

Wrex had a headache, and it wasn’t just from being knocked out. Everyone was making off with a good deal except for him. Him and – with an internal chuckle – Kip, who might already be dead.

The image of sleazy batarians throwing credits in the air rattled his brain.

“This is news to me,” Wrex gritted.

“Kypranius is a hated enemy of the Blood Pack. When we encountered him on Illium, his squad had already lost track of us. But he foiled our disappearance. In the process, he murdered my son. My _only_ son.”

Wrex could see it on Starg’s face, the primal fury that had only been further stirred by centuries under the genophage. He couldn’t argue with that sort of emotion. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t argue at all.

“Your batarians cheated me out of a fair deal. They told me they were going to capture Taltik Nirian, a turian who plundered artifacts from our homeland. Once I’d paid them, they shot me into space with the wrong damn turian. Who’s to say they aren’t fooling you as well?”

“I am no fool,” Starg answered, though his eyes shifted sidelong all the same. Tersh shifted from one foot to the other.

“Either way,” Wrex said, “The batarians owe me the real Taltik. But I doubt they’ll have the honor – so I’ll _kill_ them for my trouble.”

“I’m afraid we can’t help you with that. The batarians are reliable. At least for us they are.”

“So you think. But I doubt the turian they gave you is actually your son’s killer. He can’t walk – how’s he supposed to kill a vorcha, let alone a real warrior?”

Starg lurched to his feet, Wrex followed him as they made for the hallway.

“We will investigate this at once,” the old krogan said.

Kypran could picture her in this half-consciousness: Laysa’Rillah vas Faaraka. Her hand – all gentle curves and tapered edges – in his own. The little wires that snaked across the muted reds of her suit. Her sharp eyes suddenly foggy behind her helmet as she told him the Flotilla needed her.

“To think – I was so happy that your adventures were over,” she had said, then hurried to add: “Not the way they ended, of course…”

“I know.”

“But that you would be safe. Palaven has asked enough of you.”

Laysa had been close at Kypran’s side in the hospital on Illium. How she had gotten there so quickly, he’d never know. She had remained there throughout his recovery, telling stories from her pilgrimage to keep his mind from the violence of the recent past. She would scrounge up dextro food for them to share each night, and slept with her arm across his chest.

Laysa had marveled at the new cybernetics. She’d run her hand down his back, fingers passing from gray skin to dark metal and back to skin again. When he took his first steps, she had hugged him so tightly….

“But now, my people have asked me back. The Faaraka needs researchers for the valuable tech they’ve brought aboard. If I’m not there to help study it-”

“Be there,” Kypran had said. “They’ll be lucky to have you.”

Laysa had tilted her head. Kypran could hear a sniff behind her helmet, one that made her shoulders twitch, but there was a smile in the squint of her eyes.

“If I could just live quietly with you someday…it would be my joy, Kypran.”

_Her joy…her joy._

It made Kypran open his eyes – though the pain of waking drew a snarl past his gritted teeth. Fresh wounds stretched open as he struggled to move himself, and he found that he was held down with heavy bands. There was a bright light above him, but it did little for the stained black walls, and the wet floor that stunk of leaking fuel. A vorcha in red stood by the only door, absently inspecting the business end of its rocket launcher as if oblivious to the danger.

Kypran wondered if he was under some sort of curse. A curse to wake up in a slightly worse situation every time.

Voices, deep and krogan, sounded from outside the room. The vorcha scrambled to open the door with a rusty squeal. A pale-faced krogan, fury under his brow, thudded into the room. Kypran struggled, gurgling wordless alarm. Another krogan was following him, but Kypran couldn’t bring himself to look; he stared in blank panic to one side, too afraid at the idea that one of them might hold the leash to another varren.

“The restraints are pointless. You’ll see – the batarians cheated us both.”

That was Wrex’s voice. Kypran turned slowly to see him behind the pale one. He was looking back with what appeared to be revulsion, then turned his eyes up at the Blood Pack krogan, hard and judging.

The bands snapped open. Kypran slowly sat up. Everything hurt. Thin blue fluid dripped from his nose.

“On your feet,” the pale krogan demanded.

Kypran shuddered as he positioned himself to slide onto the floor. His feet touched ground and immediately he had to lean forward and catch the nearby wall for support. With one shoulder braced against it, he could balance upright. Passably.

“He may just be tired,” the krogan remarked, huffing a laugh. “Turians don’t last in a _real_ fight.”

“I don’t think it’s him,” Wrex persisted. “If he managed to kill your son, he could handle a few scratches.”

“Hmph. Walk.”

Gripping the wall, Kypran chanced a step. One leg buckled, and the other refused to move as he intended. With a thud, he fell forward, smearing the floor blue. Looking up, he could see that the krogan’s fury was only magnifying. Kypran braced for a strike. Instead, he heard swift footsteps as it left the room.

“Weyrloc!” It bellowed. “Chart a course to intercept that batarian cruiser!”


	6. Carnage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plenty of violence to be had in this chapter. Hope you enjoy. Feel free to comment your thoughts!

No sooner had Starg gone storming out than Wrex scooped Kip up in his arms.

“You with me?” He asked. A cough was the first thing to answer him.

“Wrex,” Kip slurred. “What….”

“I have a plan.”

The turian was limp and quiet; Wrex knew he’d lost a dangerous amount of blood. Holding Kip tightly, he darted through the door and continued down the hall, stepping through the outstretched arm of the vorcha guard.

“Halt,” it chattered. “I tell Starg.”

“Tell him and I smash you into paste,” Wrex answered. He continued down the hall, glancing over his shoulder to see the vorcha staring dumbly after him. Looking back ahead, Wrex searched the walls. Even this rickety deathtrap was bound to have at least a few medi-gel dispensers.

Wrex felt something sharp against his chin, and noticed that Kip was reaching for him. The turian’s eyes were filmy and unfocused.

Wrex searched the adjoining rooms. All of them looked to be cells, similar to the one Kip had been placed in. As he approached an intersection in the hallways, he could hear Weyrloc Tersh talking with another warrior just out of sight.

“So it might not be the one Starg put the bounty for.”

“But Starg will still butcher him – won’t he?”

“Of course. A turian’s a turian. What would be the point in letting one live once we’ve got it?”

Wrex gritted his teeth until they were set as firmly as the decision in his head. He crossed the hallway quickly to avoid the Blood Pack’s attention. Continuing his search, he finally reached a cell with a red and white dispenser inside. He deposited Kip on the floor, snapped open the main compartment, and retrieved several gel packets.

“You awake?” He asked.

“Yeah.” The answer sounded more like a question than a statement. Wrex could tell that the turian was fighting pain.

“So what happened?”

“Varren.”

“I need you to hear this,” Wrex said, as he sought each injury and pasted on gel. “I’ve seen people die. Your kind. My kind. And I’ve seen them suffer in ways like this and in plenty of others before they find a way to do it. It wouldn’t exactly horrify me to see you do the same.”

Wrex could see Kip’s brow plates rub together. Maybe it was pain, confusion. Maybe both.

“But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t pyjack shit all the same. Pointless, is what I’m trying to say. Why should I let these imbeciles rip the life out of you when you’re probably worth a hundred of them?”

Wrex rolled Kip onto his front, exposing an ugly set of slashes down his carapace. There was still some medi-gel left for them.

“My own father may have been just like them,” Wrex continued. “But at least _his_ father wasn’t a fool – and he told me something I’ll never forget. Killing an enemy – be they salarian, turian – that’s business. But killing someone stupid is a favor to the universe.”

“Right,” Kip whispered, not entirely lucid. It was an agreement all the same.

“So I don’t know about you, Kip,” Wrex said. “But I plan to do the universe a lot of favors before I’m back on solid land. You think you can help me?”

Kip propped himself up on one elbow, examining the closed wounds on his arm and leg. He pushed up further to sit.

“I want to,” he said. Wrex noticed a sharpness in the bite of the turian’s jaws that hadn’t surfaced before. “Get me a gun and I’ll shoot anything that comes my way. But I can’t take the fight to them. Not…as I am.”

“Urdnot!”

Wrex turned to see Tersh fuming in the doorway. “What are you doing with the prisoner?” He said.

Three heavy strikes – one through the eye, one across the throat, and one powered with biotics – and Tersh was slumped in a heap upon the hallway. Wrex ripped the assault rifle from the lesser krogan’s grasp.

“I’ve got a plan for all of this,” he said, turning back to Kip, and smirked.

Two hapless vorcha later, Wrex had all the weapons he could ask for. Handing Tersh’s rifle and omni-tool to Kip, he decided to make do with a rocket launcher in one hand, a shotgun in the other – only after he’d put Kip in a secure perch on his shoulders.

“Ready?” He asked. An alarm was already blaring through every corridor of the ship.

“Ready.”

Kypran could only imagine what his ancestors would think of him; assault rifle in hand, riding a krogan into battle. Granted, he had no other choice if he wanted mobility.

The end of the hallway opened onto a catwalk which outlined a large arena below. Kip recognized it as the first place he’d been taken to on the ship. The vorcha and varren waiting for them charged, eager to attack after the alarm had been raised. Wrex blasted the nearest ones apart with his shotgun. When they kept coming, Kypran knew what he had to do. The peaceful desk worker of the recent past was put away on a mental shelf. The soldier would have to keep his future safe.

The assault rifle blazed. The vorcha died just as loudly and messily as Kypran remembered. With his talons ungloved, he had to be sure not to damage the rifle, even as the force of its kickback mounted. Still, his aim sent rounds through the chests and eyes of enemies and splattered the walls red. Smoke wafted in the air.

“Glorious!” Wrex yelled.

Wrex had reached the other end of the catwalk, with Kypran still balanced atop him. They reloaded with fresh thermal clips, and Wrex opened the next door. All three of the krogan waiting for them were riddled with slugs.

A crackle sounded above them. Kypran noticed a speaker on the ceiling.

“This is Captain Starg,” bellowed the speaker. “You have made a grave mistake, Urdnot. I am charting a course for Omega. When we arrive, you will have two choices: surrender and accept Blood Pack justice, or be shot down instantly!”

Kypran felt a rumble below him. Wrex was laughing.

“He thinks he can stop us that easily? We’ll head to the front of the ship,” he said. “Starg won’t have time to jump us to Omega before he meets his end.”

Kypran kept a tight grip on Wrex as the krogan charged down the hall, blasting a hole in a vorcha’s midsection without breaking his stride. No other Blood Pack fighters had surfaced to stop them. Kypran wondered if they feared a death as quick and brutal as that of their friends in the arena.

They reached a set of stairs leading up. Wrex stormed them two at a time. Two krogan warriors waited with guns drawn, flanking the open doorway at the top.

“You take the right one!” Wrex said.

Kypran sought the warrior’s exposed neck and blasted as many holes as his thermal clip allowed. The krogan gurgled and clutched his neck, but still managed to fire his shotgun once. It stripped the ceiling panel above them to tatters, missing Kypran’s head by a few meters.

A heavy slam sounded to the left. Wrex’s enemy had been dashed on the stairs, displaced brain matter pooling under his head. Wrex lunged up the final stairs, leaving the carnage behind. In the room beyond stood Starg, who whirled to face them in a panic.

“You dare?” He snarled.

Kypran was about to pull the trigger when he realized that his thermal clips were spent. Two sharp clicks came from either side of the doorway.

“What-”

Industrial doors snapped inward to block the way, but were barely stopped by Wrex’s body stuck between them. The impact threw Kypran from his perch; propped up only on his hands, he sat useless between Wrex and Starg. Looking back, he could see that Wrex’s entire shape flared blue as the krogan used all his strength to push back. The doors would not retract, but weren’t quite managing to crush him.

“Kip!” Wrex yelled. “Shoot him!”

“Out of clips!”

“What did you think would happen?” Starg taunted from across the room. As Wrex remained pinned, Starg stalked to a set of shelves, where a hand cannon waited for him.

Kypran searched for a solution. An extra clip near enough to drag himself to, a separate weapon. He eyed the omni-tool that he’d taken. Lighting it up, he jabbed at the different functions. At last, a long, glowing blade emerged from the device.

“I had heard of the reckless arrogance of Urdnot. But did you truly think you could take over a ship with only a crippled turian to help you? My ship, no less?”

“I’ve got something,” Kypran whispered. And then he was swathed in blue, floating off the floor. Looking back, he could see that Wrex had lost some of his grip on the doors; half crushed, he kept one hand outstretched. Kypran realized that he was being lifted remotely by pure biotic force.

Wrex pushed him forward. He raised the omni-blade, ready to strike, even as Starg aimed back at him with his hand-cannon. Kypran had almost reached him when he was suddenly pulled to the side. A gunshot sounded. Then he was pushed at Starg again and at last _connected_ , drawing a heavy spurt of pale orange blood. As Starg fell, so did Kypran, finally released as Wrex refocused on the door. Sitting up, Kypran could see the life draining from the Blood Pack leader’s eyes.

“I hope you know,” Kypran said, “That your _lackeys_ suffered the same. On Illium.”

He began to drag himself to the consoles at the end of the room. Surely one of them would retract the doors. A choking, gagging cough sounded from Starg.

“My…son….”

Kypran looked back in spite of himself, faintly disturbed. The krogan went limp, dead, and he shook off the feeling, crawling further.

A button with a door etched next to it waited. Simple enough. One press, and the doors finally released Wrex.

“Are you alright?” Kypran asked. The krogan had dropped to his hands and knees, but was already beginning to pick himself back up.

“Fix the course,” Wrex said. “Starg had changed it. We’re tracking down those batarians no matter what.”


	7. Cold Mercy

With the doors locked behind them, Kypran concentrated on the ship’s navigation system. Without an A.I. to follow verbal command, changing routes was a tedious process; too many unnecessary options would pop out at him – music selections, surveillance records, optional purges for every section of the ship. Kypran eventually canceled Starg’s course for Omega, but as he searched the ship’s memory for a path to the batarians, he found nothing.

“I can’t seem to fix it,” he said. Turning to face Wrex, he heard a commotion behind the doors. Wrex had noticed it too.

“Hah – they think they can bust through,” Wrex observed.

Strings of vorcha profanity and the occasional blast of a grenade were muffled by impenetrable metal. Kypran raised his brow plates.

“Should we ask them where the batarians went off to?” He suggested.

Wrex beat a fist against his hand. “We could take one in for _questioning_.”

“Ah – maybe we’ll start by asking the normal way.”

“Well, there’s a speaker system of some sort in the ship. Starg was using it.”

Kypran located the comm system, shelved high above the captain’s seat. With a slight boost from Wrex, he reached the microphone.

“So, Blood Pack,” he said. “What’s left of you. My friend and I are interested in finding the batarians who sold me to your captain. If one of you knows the coordinates, write them down and hold them up to one of the surveillance cameras. If not – we’ll all get to find out what sort of purge features your captain installed up here.”

Kypran switched off the microphone. Wrex helped him back down into a chair near the controls.

“So that’s the ‘normal way?’” Wrex asked.

“You could call it diplomatic.”

Wrex chuckled. “Only a turian would call it that.” He fiddled with the ship’s controls and brought up the surveillance feeds. Kypran could see clusters of vorcha through a few of the monitors, chattering amongst themselves. He eyed them for any suspicious movement; his mandibles twitched. For now, they seemed subdued.

Wrex made a soft grumble beside him. Kypran noticed that the krogan was clutching his side. There was a stain near his hand, and Kypran couldn’t tell if the sloppy orange trail down Wrex’s armor was his blood or his victims’.

“Were you injured? Did the door-”

“The door didn’t crush me,” Wrex said. “I’m fine.”

Kypran turned down his head, but his eyes flickered up nonetheless, still wondering.

They waited for the vorcha to finish talking and respond. Twice more, Wrex suggested a direct interrogation. Kypran held off. Part of him didn’t mind the idea of some more revenge – they’d sicced a varren on him, after all – but inflicting violence brought its own kind of pain. Kypran still found himself looking back at Starg’s corpse, mulling over the krogan’s last words.

Wrex eventually busied himself ransacking the captain’s quarters for credits.

“Doesn’t quite pay for what the batarians owe me,” he said. “But it’s a start.”

As Wrex spoke, Kypran noticed something new on the monitors: one of the krogan – Weyrloc, he seemed to remember – had been revived by the vorcha, and with some help, it was staggering down a ramp to the lower floors of the ship. He tracked its movements from monitor to monitor. It approached a shuttle mounted with an impressive set of guns.

“That one is up to something,” Kypran said.

As Wrex turned to look, Kypran noticed that the vorcha had unearthed a thick bundle of wires from the floor, and set to slashing them apart.

In that instant, every light and monitor flickered and died.

“This is what we get for waiting on them,” Wrex said. Maybe this is just what he deserved, after letting Kip call the shots. No way they’d be able to see an approaching enemy in this darkness, let alone pilot the ship to the batarians.

“Are the doors still shut?” Kip asked.

“I’ll check.”

Wrex paced across the room with one arm outstretched. Walking hurt. Wrex wasn’t interested in explaining that he’d taken a bullet from Starg’s hand cannon. He’d moved Kip out of the way, and it had cost him. It would’ve cost the turian more.

Wrex’s fingers hit the door. “Still closed,” he said.

“Right. But the krogan downstairs is up to something. They’ll try to attack somehow.”

Wrex stumbled back to the control area. He searched for something responsive – a screen, a hologram, any sort of light. At first, nothing came – and then a powerful burst of light beamed through the ship’s front window. The light was not connected to the controls, but rather mounted on the shuttle which Weyrloc Tersh had hijacked.

A blast rocked the room. Furniture toppled over and dust cascaded from the ceiling as a rocket pummeled the front window. Wrex spotted a sturdy metal cabinet lying sideways behind him and flipped to the back of it.

“What do we do?” Kip yelled.

“Get back here!” Wrex answered. The turian made his best effort to stand and take as many steps as collapsing legs would allow. With a touch of biotics, Wrex pulled him the remaining distance.

Another blast, and cracks bloomed across the window. The cabinet rocked back against them but also shielded them from pieces of the control panel, which had broken apart and slid back at them.

“Cover won’t matter if we’re exposed to open space!” Kip said.

“I’ll see that we aren’t.”

Wrex had tried this a few times – on short walks across the outer side of merc ships and between districts on omega. A proper suit would have been more practical and much safer, but Wrex liked to be self-reliant. Badass, more accurately.

He opened his hand, and blue energy began to flow and ripple off his palm. A protective sphere formed over him, inflating, containing every particle within.

Another rocket smashed against the ship. Deep cracks ran from the center of the window to its edges. Wrex could feel every muscle straining, from his finger joints to his brain itself. The blue barrier extended to cover Kip as well.

One more blast, and window shards exploded through the room. Wrex outstretched his arms and repelled every last one. Smoke had filled the room but was instantly sucked away in the vacuum of space. With it went the controls, the furniture, and Starg’s corpse. The shuttle approached, guns charging for another devastating strike.

Wrex glared up at the shuttle. Through the tinted front panel, he could see Weyrloc Tersh, his angry face contorted in a silent rant. Wrex sneered back, and Tersh’s fury was suddenly replaced with terror. Wrex might have liked to think that his expression alone had been the reason for this change. But the true answer, he noticed, was due to an electric pulse that had left Tersh convulsing, gripping controls that sparked and shocked him out of his murderous reverie.

Wrex turned to see Kip holding out his omni tool. Its overload function had fried the shuttle. Kip jabbed into the orange display and sent another pulse at the ship. Its lights went dim, and as it continued an uncontrolled approach, it crashed into the captain’s room and skidded to a sparking halt.

Wrex was so delighted that he almost forgot to maintain his biotic field – not quite. Arms still outstretched, he took a careful step over the cabinet. Kip followed at a slow crawl.

“Think we can get inside?” Wrex asked.

“This omni-tool is one of theirs. It should open their shuttle.”

It did. As Wrex maintained the biotic field, Kip wrenched Weyrloc Tersh’s insensible body from the cockpit and left him for the cold mercy of space. Kip restarted the shuttle, and with the doors shut, Wrex could finally drop the field. He doubled over in the backseat, clutching the wound from Starg’s gun.

“Damn.”

“There might be medi-gel back there,” Kip said. “If you need it – please use it.”

Wrex watched out the window as Kip maneuvered them away from Starg’s ship. It shrank away, and then they were turning towards a distant speck of light – faintly green.

“There’s a planet out this way,” Kip noted. “Stopping there to figure out a long term plan might be wise.”

“Agreed.”


	8. Wild Carfoll

When Kypran had seen green from orbit, he’d assumed the planet was warm – full of life, like those charming garden worlds with their “sunlit tropics.” As the shuttle passed through an upper layer of chlorine gas, he realized that he could not have been more mistaken. Once the green plumes had thinned and parted, the world beneath laid barren, nothing more than expanses of gray rock.

“Feels like home,” Wrex remarked from the backseat.

“We should look for any structures,” Kypran said. “Better to find help here than to send out a signal and wait indefinitely.”

“Who said anything about finding help? We’re our own help. We’ll take what we need and continue on.”

Kypran glanced back dubiously.

“Well – I plan to help us by finding some sign of life here. Call it pro-activity.” He kept the shuttle high off the surface, searching over as much land as possible. His eyes narrowed in on every square-ish rock face and jutting natural arch. Nothing artificial yet.

“See those lights?” Wrex asked.

He’d caught something that Kypran had missed. The lights were faint, obscured by dust in the wind, but they blinked in a pattern that outlined a tower. Kypran steered the shuttle around to circle it. They veered just close enough to see the cutouts of large windows, and a few smaller towers beneath it.

“It looks old,” he remarked. “Maybe a holdover from the salarian efforts in – hm.”

The building dated back to the Krogan Rebellions; Kypran was certain of it, but was also certain that the topic didn’t warrant discussion.

“Oh, I remember,” came a grumble from behind him. Kypran kept his jaws shut.

Something in the tower shifted, and suddenly a flash engulfed Kypran’s view from the shuttle. Then there were flames, and a crack so loud that Kypran thought his own head was splitting open. He slammed forward into the controls, shaken by a shot that sent the shuttle spinning. Whirling momentum almost threw him from where he sat, but a heavy pressure around his middle kept him in place. He looked down to see Wrex holding onto him from behind his seat.

The spinning intensified. Heat and smoke billowed into the shuttle. Wrex anchored him tightly. Through cracked glass and whirling smoke, Kypran could see the ground closing in with every turn.

“Spirits-”

The crash rended metal and sent clouds of rock into the air. Wrex held Kypran still as the windshield smashed inward. The shuttle skidded to a final halt. All was quiet, except for the crackling of ignited fuel, and Wrex coughing. Kypran would have hesitated to take a breath of his own, even if he wasn’t already crushed by the arms over his chest. The air was foul with smoke and intermixed with a foreign atmosphere.

“We need to run for cover,” Wrex barked. “I mean – you just sit there.”

Kypran didn’t have time to be insulted. As Wrex finally relaxed his grip, he pushed himself off the seat and crawled through the shattered remains of the windshield. His legs pushed weakly, but his arms made up for the hindrance.

Outside, the air was cold but breathable. Kypran could still see the lights from the tower, faded by the dust in the atmosphere, but present – no longer a welcome sight, but a warning.

Kypran clutched his forehead. Aching dizziness hit him in one solid wave. Nothing felt right, but if he’d broken a bone, he didn’t want to know.

He blinked up, and Wrex was already standing over him, albeit slouching.

“Here.” The krogan reached down to hoist him up.

“Are you okay?” Kypran asked.

“We’ll find out…” more coughing. “If I can manage to drag our asses out of danger.”

Wrex seemed to lift Kypran without difficulty. Noticing a nearby cliffside, he marched toward it. Kypran looked out at the tower, hoping not to see another flash. Their chances of survival were already questionable with the shuttle destroyed. Any worse and it would all be over.

Dizziness rushed over him again, and his eyes drifted shut.

The cliff had been a decent choice after all. It had been the only choice, really, since open land was waiting in every other direction, and if Wrex had felt like asking for another rocket, he could have simply chosen one.

What had pleasantly surprised him was that the cliff hung over a series of small caves. Wrex chose the smallest among them, the mouth of it just large enough for him to walk through without stooping. Inside it was dark, but warmer than the open surface, and large enough to be safely hidden in. The back of the cave held a corridor, which stretched back indefinitely into darkness.

Wrex stumbled on an uneven rock. Catching both Kip and himself brought a fresh stab of pain to his side. He sat against the wall of the cave and deposited Kip next to him, sighing. The turian rolled himself onto his back.

“The blast didn’t knock you stupid, did it?” Wrex asked.

“Not quite.”

“Good.” Wrex shut his eyes, and found himself unwilling to open them again. Part of him knew that now wasn’t the best time for a nap, but most of him didn’t feel like caring.

He woke up some indeterminable time later with Kip sitting in front of him. The turian was holding out a handful of…something. It looked vaguely edible.

“Try this,” he said. “It’s levo. Some kind of plant.”

“Where the hell did you find plants on this rock?”

“The caves go deep. I investigated.”

Wrex glared with suspicion at the plants – little more than tan pods with gray sprigs attached to them. He picked one and chewed it.

“That’s…carfoll.”

“What?”

“It grows on Tuchanka. It’s among the only plants domesticated by the krogan. These ones seem…odd. But the taste is the same.”

“They seem to be growing wild down there. Maybe they evolved.” Kip jerked his head in the direction of the small corridor. “Want to see?”

“I…think I might need to wait here. A bit.”

Pain and fatigue were catching up. Wrex usually didn’t have to follow up multiple firefights with a crash landing, even on bad days.

“Okay,” Kip said. “But we’re stuck here until we find a safe way out. As long as we’re in this cave, I can’t send a signal with the omni-tool. Probably metal deposits around that are…”

Wrex had stopped listening. Patches of blood between his armor and skin continued to grow. His body had to heal before he could bother to give a damn about anything else.

Kip was still talking. Wrex could see him in the blurred corners of his vision, his head cocked and his mandibles gnashing. Small and angry.

“…Listen. I want to find those slavers as badly as you do, so….”

Wrex thought back on them. The batarians with their shrewd eyes and needly grins. Passing up a chance to gut them all just wasn’t in his nature. But right now – nothing felt right.

“…If you were hurt back there, either say so or do something to…”

Wrex shut his eyes. Kip’s voice registered in the back of his mind as little more than background noise.

He decided to sleep. For as long as he had to.

Maybe it was all his imagination, but Wrex’s last semi-conscious thoughts were of things in the caves. Fields of carfoll which once belonged to a whole colony of his people….


	9. Old Pain

Wrex just wasn’t responding. There was no spark of understanding in his eyes; eventually nothing at all. Hunched against the wall, the krogan even seemed smaller, almost deflated. Without medi-gel or even bandages, there was nothing Kypran could do for him. Just taking off Wrex’s armor to look for wounds or dragging him further into the cave and away from any outside danger would be near impossible. Deflated or not, he was likely still heavier than three turians put together.

So Kypran decided to resume his exploration of the caves. He wasn’t sure if he could call it a decision – but it was made. He crawled into the first tunnel and sought out the wider chambers that waited with their patches of wild carfoll. If the plants could grow, certainly there was water. Water which might help them both.

The tunnel was dark, but a distant glow urged Kypran forward. It was also narrow, and yet tall enough to stand in, but Kypran couldn’t enjoy the opportunity. His legs flopped behind him as his arms took on most of the work. A few unfortunate mornings after a skipped charge had given him some marginal practice at crawling with his disability, but beyond that he’d never had to struggle. Only this series of nightmares had forced him to make do with a half-functioning body.

Kyrpan reached the first large chamber. The floor was surprisingly flat, although small piles of rock had caved in onto some areas. Kypran noticed thin grooves in the surface which appeared to make a grid. The pattern was consistent – not at all natural.

Here the glow was brighter. Kypran could see circular gaps in the ceiling, and through them some soft, pale light. Either light from the system’s star, or possibly some artificial source. He rolled onto his back to rest and stared at the distant gaps.

Kypran heard echoes of Wrex’s coughing. At least he wasn’t dead. Kypran had figured that it would take much more to kill the krogan, but he still worried. On this blasted rock, he had one ally, one hand pulling him towards survival and a happy future with Laysa.

Kyrpan pushed on, to where the carfoll grew thicker and thicker and the rocks became blanketed in dirt. He squirmed through a gap in a caved-in wall and emerged into a larger, lighter room. The floor teemed with plants, and in the center stood a pool of water, fed by a quiet trickle from the ceiling. Kypran just managed to push himself onto his knees and crawl a bit faster, eager for a drink – the batarians and the Blood Pack had provided him nothing, and a change was in order.

A scan from his omni tool proved that it was drinkable, albeit mildly radioactive. Radiation was nothing new to anyone Palaven-born. Kypran took a gulp, tasting metal and caring none.

He wondered if Wrex would need water. He had never known a krogan before, never mind that he had killed some. He didn’t know if water was an important resource to them, as it was to the Council races. Even if he knew, would he be able to bring water from the source to where Wrex was sitting? The answer was almost certainly no, although….

No, he decided. Wrex wouldn’t appreciate waking up to a turian regurgitating down his throat. Even if it was well-intentioned. The traditional option would not work in this case.

Kypran took one last gulp for himself. As he bent to drink, he thought he saw some shift of movement on the dark outer edges of the room. He sat up quickly and found himself looking at a helmeted krogan. It was staring directly back at him.

As he coughed, Wrex knew it dimly – like when one organ fails in battle and another starts to take its place – something beyond just fatigue was wrong with him. Breathing stung. The atmosphere itself felt poisoned. He had to wonder: if this place had been a battlefield during the Krogan Rebellions, what sort of hazards might linger?

He pushed his sluggish body forward. The cave air was thick, with real toxins or mental phantoms, he wasn’t sure. He just wanted a clean breath, and beyond the mouth of the cave he could see the white expanse of starlit rock, and imagined that he would feel better if he could just reach it.

Time itself began to smear together. Flashes of the cold horizon were interspersed with something brighter, fuller. Wrex wondered if the figures flitting above were ships or just clouds of gas. If the distant pinpricks across the growing fields were fellow krogan. He began to stumble towards them.

A deep breath and a blink later, and Wrex saw the world in its current state again. Skeletal terrain and a thick blanket of chlorine above him. The tower that had shot down their ship still barely lit in the distance.

He charged for the tower. Every joint ached, and a wet feeling spread further from his untreated wound. It only made his steps come faster. He needed an airlock between himself and whatever was making his brain melt.

Wrex felt warmth on his back. Above him, the sky cleared again; a brilliant orange star beamed life onto every surface. He kept running, and his armored legs kicked up tufts of carfoll where there had been stone only seconds ago.

As the state of the planet warped and shifted around him, one constant remained: the tower with its blinking lights. At last, Wrex managed a final stumble that brought his hands against its unlocked door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a break since there didn't seem to be too much interest :p

**Author's Note:**

> I know the Mass Effect fandom isn't quite as prominent as it's been in the past, so any reviews or comments from those of you who are still around will be super appreciated <3  
> Also feel free to lemme know if you recognized the title lol  
> More of Wrex being annoyed asf, coming soon!


End file.
